


C'est La Guerre

by iamthewordshaker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthewordshaker/pseuds/iamthewordshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You tried to start a revolution. You tried to make them see, to create a new Alternia. You tried—and you failed. These are your last moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'est La Guerre

You're dying.

You're dying, but not quickly enough. There's pain in your body and your skin and bitter blood in your mouth and lungs and you choke and gasp but you can't breathe quickly enough; your protein chute fills with bloods, disgusting candy red blood that you've hid ever since birth, that caused this revolution in the first place, that pushed and pushed and pushed you to fight and fight and fight all because you wanted peace, you just wanted peace—and your eyes open, just slightly, your gaze foggy and smeared with blood and tears, tinting everything a hideous red.

You see red.

You see her.

Kneeling, screaming, and pleading. Fighting the trolls that hold her down and they hit her again and again—

she screams your name, screams her love for you, screams her anger and hurt and heartbreak and love love love—

and again and again until she's barely conscious, beautiful emerald blood streaming down her face and body and you want to tell her you're sorry, you're so sorry, because this is all your fault. Everything is your fault, she's going to die and it's your fault—

No.

No, it isn't.

Your vision flickers in and out and your body goes numb. You can still taste and smell and feel the pain and blood clogged in your neck and lungs and mouth, dripping onto your chin and falling down your beaten and bruised chest, and you realize it is not. your. fault.

It's theirs.

The highbloods. The Empress.

The ones who refused to accept peace. The ones who always wanted a war because—because they knew they could win it.

They wanted war and bloodshed and deaths and you thought you could change them. You were naïve enough to believe that you could change them, could change this world and society and all of Alternia, could fuel a revolution and change everything to how you remember.

You were foolish.

Foolish but not wrong.

You still know in your heart that what you saw was a better Alternia. It will always be a better Alternia.

But it is not this Alternia. Not now. You can only hope that your followers, your friends and your lover and your guardian and everyone intelligent enough to understand that this bloodshed isn't necessary will carry on your teachings, your word, and transform your world into the paradise you know it as.

You forget that some of your followers are in the crowd, being held captive by the Empress's trolls. You forget all of this and focus on the highbloods themselves, their foolish stubbornness, their pure idiocy in their refusals to accept what you've given them.

Because that's what it comes down to, really. You gave them this world, you gave them freedom from the caste system and ritual cullings and so much death, and they threw it back in your face and dared to hurt your friends.

To hurt your lover.

Your vision flickers in and out, in and out, and you can't see anything, can't feel anything, but somehow, someway, you forced a wretched scream out of your throat. You force your eyes open and jerk around, thrashing, feel the burn of the irons in your torn wrists, digging into your flesh, and the pain forces you awake, forces you into clarity for just a minute.

Just for the time you need.

You shout and scream and rage, spitting and hissing and snarling, noises coming out of your mouth that you didn't even know were possible. Your sermons up until this point have been calm, friendly even, if a bit firm. Ideological. Hopeful. Optimistic.

These are your last words. This is your last prayer. This is your last chance to convince them, but part of you knows that whatever you say, it won't make a fucking difference.

Your voice bellows over the crowd, hushing even the angriest of highbloods, quieting some of the subjugglators that have gathered to watch your death. They care nothing about you in particular. They only want your blood. To see your death and the violence. You scream and yell until your voice is hoarse and nothing but a whisper, and you choke and spit on your own blood before someone snarls at your executioner.

Your eyes fall on your lover and she's crying—you can tell her tears from her blood—and her face is wet and she's limp in her captives' arms, and you try to smile for her, try to convince her it's alright, but you know that she's likely to die next.

Part of you—the cowardly part that's always been there, ever since you were a child and had to sleep clinging to the Dolorosa's skirts lest you wake up screaming—is grateful that you are the first to die.

You close your eyes.

You've said your part. The pain is fading now, much faster than before, and you feel a dull thump in your chest. Where your blood pumper is and you know it's been pierced, know you're dying, you only have a few moments.

Try as you might, you can't make those last moments last. Your voice fails you and your breath comes in short, wet, sputtering coughs and you writhe and your eyes are closed and you can see nothing and the crowd quiets to a soft murmur.

You think of her. You think of your guardian, you think of your friends, you think of your supporters. You're crying now, even though your heart has stopped and you no longer breathe and this is your last moment. Your very last moment and you cannot do anything, trapped in a dying body that may already be dead.

But you've said what you needed to and the anger is quickly slipping from your grasp.

I'll be waiting, you think, rather calmly given the circumstances, and your body slackens in the chains.

You don't hear the sobs that break the silence.


End file.
